


Blazing Fear

by thescribblenaut



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Bonfire Incident, Feeling smoked, Gen, Sherlock being slightly mad, The Empty Hearse, and John's in a bonfire, whoops
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-12
Updated: 2014-06-12
Packaged: 2018-02-04 09:00:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1773361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thescribblenaut/pseuds/thescribblenaut
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mary squeezed his waist too hard whenever she showed him a new text. Compensating for losing grip in one arm as she held out her phone, she tightened her other around his waist like a boa constrictor would around its prey, almost suffocating in its pressure. It was distracting, the feeling like his head needed to burst.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>The search and rescue of John Watson, as seen in The Empty Hearse, from Sherlock’s POV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blazing Fear

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own nor profit from. People are not possessions.
> 
> My take on the bonfire scene, from Sherlock's POV, because apparently I'm better at writing that.

The bike ride was excruciating, born of desperation and 'good old' make do. Sherlock's stomach tied and re-tied itself into knots again and again, over and over; Mary's arms around his waist acting as his last anchor, the only thing keeping him from screaming in frustration. Or maybe that was terror. Because John Watson was most definitely in danger. Someone had _dared_ to lay a finger on him. And now he was possibly lying hurt, in a ditch somewhere-no. Logic.

Mary squeezed his waist too hard whenever she showed him a new text. Compensating for losing grip in one arm as she held out her phone, she tightened her other around his waist like a boa constrictor would around its prey, almost suffocating in its pressure. It was distracting, the feeling like his head needed to burst. Which certainly wouldn't help them find John. Nothing like being needed and then being so terrified you were practically useless.

Taunting and unbearably smug, the messages sounded like something Mycroft would send, after a particularly foul dental appointment, The language was similar, as was the general manner of the sender, plus the fact that they'd used a skip code. However, kidnapping was one thing. If Mycroft ever pulled a stunt like this, Sherlock honestly felt he would have no twinge of conscience in destroying his brother. He was more than capable, especially after the last two years. Particularly Serbia.

_Definitely, enjoying it._

They reached the church, watching as flames went up on a bonfire. _Oh God, no. No, tell me no._ His entire body tensed as he realised what was actually going on. Oh, he'd understood perfectly before, this was a _game_ , a 'catch me if you can' sort of thing. Or rather, a 'catch him before he dies' situation. But now, all the hints about fire, and 'heating up' made complete sense. Bonfire. _St. James Theless. It's a church._

_A church that holds a bonfire every year._

_Bonfire- bon\fire_

_A large open-air fire used for burning rubbish or in a celebration._

_~~Rubbish.~~ Celebration._ **Burning.**

_John._

"Oh my god-!" His tone had sounded horrified, a stifled cry of distress. He sped up the bike, before ordering Mary to jump off a couple of seconds later. Helmet off, and run.

A terrified scream echoed over the park. Young woman's or child's, having realised something they perceived as horrifying.

Had he not been so preoccupied with getting John _out_ of the fire, Sherlock probably would have been violently sick. He'd never liked bonfires, even as a child, pulling away from the stench of choking smoke. The idea of John, _John_ , being inside a _fire_ , was just so disturbingly _wrong_ , so incapacitating- His vocabulary shrunk to two words within seconds as he shoved past people mercilessly.

"Move! Move! _Move!"_ He was almost screaming, stumbling over people as they failed to react fast enough, _idiots, don't you realise he could die-?!_

_"John!"_

He ruthlessly pounded through adults and children alike, utterly unconcerned for their welfare, even as he knocked over a shockingly small young man.

"John!" Her fiancée's name tore from Mary's throat, a plea for a reply, a sign of life, anything. A faint cry for help answered her, making Sherlock's knees almost buckle with relief before he realised John's life still hung in the balance.

"Move, move! _JOHN!"_ He bellowed, bursting triumphantly through the last dregs of the crowd, who were now clinging to each other for support as he started tearing at the structure of the bonfire.

"John!" One syllable had never carried so much emotion in his life, sheer desperation making his voice crack. He dashed over the few feet of dusty ground to the bonfire, which was crackling merrily, almost as if it was mocking him. Mary stopped just in front of the crowd, watching in terror as he ripped at the structure, having found the weakest point without collapsing it all on John, who was now making a consistent babble of noise. Sherlock's hands burnt through his gloves, tingly and uncomfortable. He was vaguely aware of the fact that he was still whispering John's name as he frantically worked to get him free, half sobbing from stress and the pain in his hands. The flames flared up suddenly as he worked a crate out of the mess, making him flinch backwards, barely able to get out of the way, but he was back, scrabbling at the wood with all the desperation of a man starving when he sees food.

Mary let out a loud noise as Sherlock cleared a way into the centre of the bonfire, and really, this was taking far _too long_ , but then he looked at where she was pointing, able to see a pair of boots.

"John!" He grabbed at the boots, heaving John away from the flames, which he should never have been near in the first place, _oh God, too close, too close, too close, oh my God, get him out-_ John came free of the fiery prison with one final pull, and then Sherlock was pulling him away, further, further, further, in light little tugs, just to be sure. John was far too still, compliantly letting himself be pulled along. Sherlock dropped his arms, quickly going round and kneeling next to his friend _Yes, friend, even after the punches, shut up , Mycroft_.

"John? Can you hear me? John?" Sherlock looked desperately over his shoulder to Mary, who came running forwards and knelt next to him, tugging on John's hand.

"John, love, it's Mary, can you hear me?" She asked. Sherlock placed a hand on John's neck, checking for a pulse, finding one, fairly strong, considering his ordeal, and keeping his hand there anyway. Mary continued calling John, who abruptly took in a shuddering breath. Sherlock panicked, wasn't that what they did in films? Before they _died?_ But no, John opened his eyes, staring blankly upwards, then focusing on him and Mary. And okay, Sherlock couldn't help the quiet exhalation of 'John', but it was relief, alright? John was alive. He was okay.

He'd survive.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm considering adding more to this, a sort of after bit, with much more angst, and Lestrade being possibly the best human being this world has to offer. In his own way. So, if you'd like to see more angst, tell me in the comments, please!


End file.
